In The After
by lost logic
Summary: It was after. After the last spell had been shouted, after the last body had been gathered, after Harry had gone to bed and Ron had left to pick up the pieces of a broken family. And in the after, Hermione was alone. For once Hermione acts without a plan.


It was after.

After the last spell had been shouted, after the last body had been gathered, after Harry had gone to bed and Ron had left to pick up the pieces of a broken family.

It was after.

And in the after, Hermione was alone.

She sat in the Great Hall, removed from all the others.

The platform that had once held the head table was now stained crimson with blood, and she pictured all the people it belonged to. No one spoke to her, but she could feel their glances – careful, curious, concerned – as if they were warm, sticky hands upon her shoulders. Maybe she was being selfish, ignoring them like that. Maybe she should have turned and joined them, laying all their worries to rest with a well placed smile. Maybe she should have cared a little more what they thought. Maybe at another time she would have. But not now.

It was after.

And in the after, Hermione was changed.

She knew what she would see if she turned around.

More tears. More destruction. More death.

She knew that by now the bodies would have been removed, but it hardly mattered. The Great Hall would be forever tainted with the blood of her friends and the sight of their still, still faces.

Then she thought of another face. Not a beloved one, but one to be despised. One to be feared.

It was after.

And in the after, Hermione still wondered.

She was filled with the overwhelming urge to check. To make sure that all the sacrifices made had not been in vain, that after all these years it was actually finished. That the threat was actually gone.

She stood abruptly and drew her wand.

Every eye in the hall was on her, startled by the sudden movement, frightened by the urgency. They expected, she imagined, for her to turn left and join the Weasleys. She heard the whispers when she did not. Undeterred, she continued on her path through the throng of people, striding past the staircase in the entrance hall and over the debris of battle, not particularly caring that others were following, barely noticing their remarks and exchanged looks.

The guards that had been put in place tried to stop her. It was a testament to how hard the year had been, how hard all the years had been, that she stunned them both without a word or a second thought.

No one followed her though the heavy oak door. But it was better that way.

It lay on a table in the middle of the room. The frames adorning the walls were empty and there were no windows. There was no movement at all.

She moved closer.

It was incredibly pale. Hermione wasn't sure whether that was do to with the regular post-mortem lividity setting in, or if that was simply the way it had always been. She couldn't quite remember.

She moved closer.

It had no lips, no nose, no eyebrows; it was easy to believe that it hadn't had a soul. There was practically no link to the boy she knew he had once been. Except his eyes. Every time she drew a breath she expected them to snap open, expected the impossibly thin mouth to curve into the smile she would have nightmares about for years.

Still, she moved closer.

She was right beside it now. She could have touched it, had she been so inclined. But it repulsed her. She had hated it, _him_, more than she had ever hated anything. Feared him over everything she had ever been afraid of. But now, after, it just made her angry.

There was a noise at the door, and she spun, posed for attack.

Kingsley raised his hands and spoke slowly, obviously meaning to calm her. But she _was_ calm. The kind of calm that settles deep into your bones. The kind of calm you can feel before a numbness starts to spread.

"Hermione. It's over, he can't hurt anyone anymore."

Hermione thought of all the families who would now be missing a son or daughter, a mother or a father, a brother or a sister. She thought of Harry who had never had them in the first place. She could picture the house tables, and how many empty spaces there would be.

She turned back to the body. "He'll never stop," she said quietly, "It'll never be over."

Kingsley didn't speak.

Hermione sighed. "Why is it still here?"

"Legal reasons" said Kingsley, and it was so absurd that Hermione laughed.

"Why don't you go back to the others? I've only come to take it away." By the tone of his voice Hermione gathered that she hadn't been the only one unnerved by the slight hysterical edge to her laughter.

"You don't need it anymore?"

"Well, actually, the Department of Myster—"

"No."

"Pardon?"

"No. They can't have it. You mustn't let them." Her throat was dry; she could hear the panic in her own voice. "Kingsley, you can't."

Kingsley spoke infuriatingly slowly again, like he was speaking to a four-year-old. "Hermione, you needn't worry, they are professionals. Access to that area of the ministry is strictly guarded."

Hermione flinched as she looked at the face on the table. "Not well enough."

With a flick of her wand the entire table went up in flame.

She threw Bellatrix's wand into the inferno and turned back to Kingsley. By the way his mouth was gaping, Hermione knew exactly how unstable she must look with her many cuts and bruises illuminated by the fire.

"I personally infiltrated the Department of Mysteries at age fifteen, minister. I then battled a troupe of Death Eaters within the department. You'll have to forgive me when I say I don't have much trust in the security there."

Hermione pushed past him. "Good Evening."

Upon opening the door, she found that nearly the entire contents of the Great Hall had spilled into the ruined entrance way. They were all focused solely on her. Or rather, she supposed, the fire swirling devouring what was left of the body behind her.

She in turn was focused entirely on finding an achingly familiar splash of red. And when she saw Ron break away from the front of the crowd, his hair scorched from the room of requirement, his clothing tattered, his arms raised as an invitation, she felt, for the first time in a long time, like maybe things could be all right.

In a moment of daring she kissed him in front of them all.

It was after.

After the last enemy had been destroyed, after the last barrier had been breached, after the wounds had been inflicted, after the last doubt had been erased.

It was after.

And in the after, Hermione would be brave.

* * *

AN: Ok, so a little OOC? Maybe. I'm afraid you'll just have to forgive me. I was feeling like Hermione wouldn't just be complacent after, like she'd want some sort of revenge. Does that make sense? Ah, well. Makes sense to me. Leave a review, tell me whatcha thought, even if you thought it was awful (and it might be, I haven't written in forevvvvvvvverrrrrr) Thanks for reading! - Sloane


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